


Haunted

by Lionswaps (Pyropesy)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (but it's brief and fairly mild), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Closure, Coran (Voltron)-centric, Dancing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Halloween, Stargazing, Team as Family, Torture, Trick or Treating, VLD Halloween Exchange
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 20:49:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12590252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyropesy/pseuds/Lionswaps
Summary: It had taken Coran a while to notice the extra presence aboard the Castle of Lions.-Coran is familiar with loss; between maintaining the Castle of Lions, keeping his oath to protect Allura, and fighting a war, there isn't a lot of time to deal with all of the hidden grief he carries with him.Maybe a visit from an old friend will bring him the closure he needs.





	Haunted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AstroPhantom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstroPhantom/gifts).



> Hey y'all! Wow, this is my first fic I've ever posted. Congrats to me!  
> This was my entry for the VLD Trick of Treat Halloween exchange. My giftee was AstroPhantom, who requested some Coran-focused content. I was so excited when I got the prompts for this event, they made me really happy and I had a blast writing this, so thank you!!!  
> Sorry it's a bit late, and double sorry that it's incomplete. This was meant to be a one-shot, but I got... really carried away, bit off more than I could chew, and then encountered a bunch of unfortunate last-minute setbacks that made it impossible to finish on time. But I wanted to post something now before it was super duper late, so now it's a multi-chapter instead!  
> I'm on tumblr @terezees, come talk to me!!  
> Cheers! Happy (belated) Halloween!!

It had taken Coran a while to notice the extra presence aboard the Castle of Lions.

The signs were subtle, at first; though he was loathe to admit he wasn’t as sharp-minded as he once was, it was easy to write it all off as his mind playing tricks on him. (Coran was _not_ going senile. No siree, absolutely not. He was only a little older than six-hundred deca-phoebs, _thank you very much.)_ He was, however, reluctant to buy into any other explanation for the odd happenings that seemed to be ghosting him.

And what an unfortunate choice of words _that_ was.

The first time something happened was shortly after the Balmera incident, about a week after the scare they’d all had from King Alfor’s AI. Coran had been on his knees with his head underneath a console compartment, double-checking the alignment of the barrier crystals, when he’d heard a noise; a rustling, and a rush of wind- like the flourishing of a heavy cape as someone turned around.

Coran had been so startled, he’d banged his head on the metal in his sharp movement to straighten up and see where the noise had come from-

Nothing. He turned his head left and right, but no one else was in the room. Neither had the control deck’s automatic sliding doors opened to signal anyone had left.

Putting it down to his imagination, Coran rubbed at the tender bruise already forming on his noggin, and went back to work.

It was two quintants after that when he started noticing other things- footsteps trailing in the hallway behind him, but seeing nothing every time he whirled around; a persisting chill in his private quarters that had him shivering lightly, even when he checked and double-checked that the thermostat was turned on and working fine; flickers of movement out of the corner of his eye- _surely that was just a trick of the light, the mice maybe, nothing to worry about-_

And consistently, with increasing frequency, the _whoosh_ of a billowing cape.

 _The Castle is_ not _haunted,_ he thought with… rapidly fading conviction. _Like I told young Lance, it’s just a big embodiment of advanced supernatural technology…_

That couldn’t be explained by science alone. But it’s not haunted!

Trust him.

Only, as the days went on and the odd happenings began to show up more and more often, Coran noticed a slight change. Whereas before he could probably still chalk it all down to paranoia and his own wound-up nerves, this new addition to the goings-on was cause for actual alarm.

He felt like he was being watched.

Coran would be alone in a room, cleaning or fixing or working away, when he’d feel the pointed attention of _something,_ unnamed and unseen, directed towards him. He may be flamboyant and zealous at times, but Coran had _always_ had a good set of instincts. Ones he’d learned to trust, over his many deca-phoebs as the King’s advisor.  

Something was following him. Something was in the Castle, _watching_ him. The presence came and went- was more often than not accompanied by the noises and the cold spots and the movement he could never quite catch. What’s more, it felt like it had _intent._ Whatever this mystery guest was, it had a reason for being here. Coran couldn’t yet tell if that reason was good or bad.

The growing sense of apprehension this caused him reached a point of climax when one day, as himself and Allura were going over a map of a nearby star system in the control deck, he finally caught sight of something. An indistinct, transparent figure. Colourless and barely there. Unmoving.

Right behind Allura’s shoulder.

Coran’s stomach froze. He stared at it- or tried to. It was like he couldn’t quite force it into focus; it was within his awareness, but looking directly at it caused its already ill-defined outline to fade another notch, slip further out of sight. He could still feel it’s attention on him, but it felt less intense this time- like it was divided.

Like it was noticing Allura, too.

Coran’s throat closed up; his mouth went dry as dust. He should speak up, should warn her- say _something-_

“Coran? Is everything alright?” She had looked up from the holographic star chart, a soft concern on her face at his sudden quietness. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He met her worried gaze, saw the dark smudges under her eyes, the tired slump of her shoulders-

The presence slid away, the room warmed up a notch (when had it gotten cold?). When he chanced another glance, he couldn’t see anything behind her.

“Nothing wrong, Princess,” he replied, voice admirably steady. “Just lost in thought for a tick. Back to work, then!”

She smiled at him and turned back to the maps. Coran forced his tired eyes to focus on the hologram, unsure why he’d held his tongue, and feeling guilty over doing so.

A moment later, when he heard the noise of a cape rippling through the air, Allura didn’t seem to notice at all.

*

Coran had been there when Altea had burned. He'd felt the aftershock of the blast when the Galra first fired, had stood side-by-side with the King and Princess, all three of them bracing with their entire bodies to stop the tremors from knocking them over. The ferocity of the attack was so intense that even from the safety of the Castle’s control room, they’d felt it.

It must have _decimated_ the city.

Even now, deep-set in his bones, he carried the shaking with him with every step he took. If he thought about the memory too hard, he’s sure his legs would give way from the force of it.

He’d seen the citadel drowned in flames. Alarms and harsh flashing lights deafening and disorientating. Zarkon, back from the dead, delivering his horrible ultimatum; _Relinquish Voltron or I will destroy it all._

_The universe will know me._

That had not been the face of their friend. Perhaps the Zarkon they’d known had been dead long before the Rift. Perhaps he’d been long past saving for years. They had barely noticed him slipping away from them, driving the wedge forcefully between himself and Altea. Deca-phoebs of bitterness, paranoia and distrust, dark and noxious, building up underneath their noses.

They should have tried harder to talk sense into him. To stop him destroying himself before it came to this, came to him destroying everything else.

King Alfor was no coward; he would not give into that monster’s demands. But Coran had never known him to be a fool, either. With the Paladins all planets away, Zarkon’s imperial fleet bearing down on them with twisted retribution like a firestorm, Allura’s heated pleas to _stay and fight, don’t abandon hope-_

Alfor had chosen to take a chance, and play the waiting game.

If Coran had known the King hadn’t considered himself a vital part of his own game strategy, maybe he would have argued, too.

“ _Take her, keep her safe,”_ Alfor had gently slipped Allura’s sleeping form into Coran’s arms, and drawn his sword. “ _Take the Castle, and the Black Lion- and run, Coran_. _Get as far away from Altea as you can. Use the cryostasis pods. Wait this out, until things are safe.”_

And then he’d started to walk away. Coran’s tongue had tripped over itself in his sudden desperation, watching his dearest friend leave, helpless to stop any of this from happening.

 _“W-wait! What about you, what are you going to do?”_ he’d called. His throat was burning. There was a pressure behind his eyes, his arms shaking as they held the Princess closer.

Alfor had looked over his shoulder, paused his steps just once to meet Coran’s eyes.

 _“I’m going to give you both a fighting chance,”_ he said in a steady, direct voice. Face set, grim, but eyes alight with fire. Pleading and trusting and heartbroken all at once. _“If I fail, trust Allura. She’ll know what she must do.”_ And his voice had cracked then, just slightly, an almost imperceivable glimpse into the shattering grief underneath Alfor’s calm resolve.

Their home was dying.

His only child was their last hope.  

_“Protect her with your life.”_

His final command, issued with such raw emotion, hung in the air between them for a long moment- just long enough for it to brand itself into Coran’s mind, with a fire as unabated and fierce as the one burning his planet to the ground. Not an order from a King to his advisor, but a request from one friend to another. Coran hadn’t realised it had been a goodbye until it was too late.

He’d only nodded in response. He hadn’t had the words, the time. To thank Alfor for everything, to wish him luck, to say _‘of course I’ll protect her, she’s family and so are you.’_ Coran would never know if Alfor understood. He would never see him alive again.

His King had walked out the door with his sword brandished and his head held high. The last lingering impression he left behind was steady footsteps, confident as he marched to his death with his head held high, and the rustling rush of thick fabric as his cape snapped out behind him.

 

 

Alfor had stayed true to his word; he’d bought them time. (Far too much of it, as Coran would soon find out.) Coran ignored the guilt squirming in his stomach as he transferred Allura’s sleeping form into a cryopod, and he piloted the Castle away from Altea. With the King preoccupying him, Zarkon wasn’t able to command his fleet as efficiently as he would have. By some miracle, Coran evaded the laser fire, and with gritted teeth ignored the chaos and destruction happening around him.

Allura was his priority. If nothing else survived today, she would. She had to.

He’d made a promise.

Coran flew the Castle far, far away- until Altea was nothing but a dull orange spec lost in the infinity of blackness surrounding it. Like a hot ember, flicking away from a fire and spitting out into nothing. The alarms had turned off, at some point, and Coran was left with silence. A ringing in his ears. A numbness encapsulating his senses.

He landed on Arus, a quiet, apparently uninhabited planet far out of reach of Zarkon’s claws. Then he got to work; walked through the Castle and began powering everything down. The engines first, then the communication systems and artificial gravity; the lights and the thermostats, the particle barrier- _everything._ Methodically, room-by-room. Making them more invisible. Vanished. Forgotten.

The only thing he kept running was the life support systems in the Cryostasis chamber. One pod for Allura, already in suspended animation, peaceful as she slept- and one for himself.

The pod held uncertainty. He hesitated before stepping inside, not knowing what would await him when he woke up. If he’d even wake up at all. How long would it be, before they were given the all-clear? He thought- hoped- foolishly, that maybe Alfor had survived. That he’d send word for them when things were safe.

How much of Altea would be left? Would it even be salvageable? Had there been something they missed, along the way- some opportunity they let pass by to turn this all around. To stop this from ever happening?

Coran took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. The future was looming ahead of him, terrifying and undefined. He dreaded going forward, but there was nothing to go back to. What was even his purpose, now?

He looked to Allura’s sleeping form. The window of her pod had frosted over with cold, and she was barely visible behind the glass.

 _Protect her with your life._ The oath he’d made rung in his ears. It was part of him now; that was where his future lay.

He had a job to do.

With trembling limbs, unsure of everything, Coran stepped into the pod, the quiet _hiss_ of it sealing him in the last thing he heard before succumbing to a long, long, _long,_ sleep.

 

*

 

His belongings keep going missing.

This is a problem, because he has a to-do list the size of Altea’s smallest moon to work through. It’s also very concerning, because he’s convinced it’s not the mice who are taking his things this time. They’re not nearly as sly as they think they are.

No, Coran’s almost certain that it’s this new… _presence,_ up to its old tricks again. Or new tricks, he supposes. Semantics.

The point is, he has a lot that he has to get done, and he doesn’t have time to be mucking about hunting down spanners and wrenches and crystal-upkeep manuals when they’re not where he _knows_ he left them.

When he interrogates the mice, just to be _sure-_ ruling out all possibilities, and all that- he’s met with indignant squeaking. He thinks he offended them. Allura is sure to scold him about it later and make him apologise, which is _ridiculous._

As if those little thieves haven’t done anything wrong before. The nerve of them.

So he gives up looking for the new screws he put aside to replace the panelling on the Gladiator bot’s chest- he can do that later, when they show up again. He has to re-calibrate the bot’s difficulty levels to suit the Paladins more suitably, anyway. May as well wait until he has the readings from their latest training sessions in front of him and just kill two duflaxes with one stone.

So instead, he heads to the cryostasis chamber to do his weekly scrub-down of the pods. Ever since he and Allura woke up and a small gang of pesky, scheming _rodents_ crawled out of the Princess’ pod with her, he’s started treating sanitation a mite more seriously.

Though he can hardly be that mad about the mice. They stopped Allura from crying, when they’d woken up from cryosleep and found themselves alone. And if they make Allura happy, keep her company, remind her of home…

Well, who is he to hold any resentment towards them?

Stars, _ten-thousand deca-phoebs._ It still doesn’t seem real. Everything he knew, every _one_ he knew- gone in a matter of moments. For him. But it hadn’t been moments, had it?

Not for the universe. For the rest of reality, it had been endless war, suffering, _pain._ Zarkon had blown Altea into space dust, then decided that wasn’t enough. He had just kept taking and taking and _taking-_

Nope. None of that.

Not a good idea to dwell on those thoughts. Coran had to keep himself busy.

Every time he felt himself slip away into memories, lingered too long on all he’d lost, a heaviness would start to overcome him. He’d lose the spring in his step, and his feet would start to drag. His soul felt weary, a tiredness seeping into the core of his being that was becoming harder and harder to ignore.

So... Best to avoid all that.

He had so much to do.

Except that, halfway through scrubbing down the inside of the second pod, he paused to roll up his sleeves; and when he bent down to pick the cleaning cloth back up from where he’d left it on the floor, it had vanished.

Coran was _tics_ away from tearing his moustache off in frustration. He spun around on the spot, wildly looking for any trace of the damn thing. He’d left it _right there,_ right by his boot! There was no way it could have just-

He froze. A cold feeling on the back of his neck; He’d attracted attention.

Turning slowly, his eyes widened when he caught sight of the figure once more. It was hovering a little ways into the room, just by the doorway where a small work bench was positioned. Like before, it was difficult to hone in on it, take it all in; it kept slipping out of his focus. Coran knew it was there, but it took a fair bit of mental effort to keep _seeing_ it.

But what was _very_ easy to see was his cloth sitting innocently on the table beside it.

Coran sprung into a defensive crouch, pointing a dramatic finger at the apparition

“THIEF!” He hollered. “I’ve caught you red-handed!”

The figure wavered a little, like a static-filled video feed trying to tune to the right station. Coran got no reply. He straightened, and cleared his throat.

Well, now he had proof that this… _thing_ was what was moving all his belongings around and inhibiting his work. At least he knew for sure he wasn’t going crazy. Not that he was worried about that in the slightest. Pish posh.

But if it was getting in the way of Castle maintenance, there was a chance it was trying to sabotage the safety of its inhabitants. He should _really_ bring this up to Allura and the Paladins, now. He really should have done that when he first noticed the figure. He still isn’t quite sure why he didn’t.

Except, Coran doesn’t really know how to mention this without sounding mad as a wet chüper. And… well, if this- apparition, spectre, whatever you wanted to call it- really was malicious and out to see them to their doom via negligence of Castle maintenance, then its first priority surely wouldn’t be to stop Coran from polishing the barely-dusty interior of an unused healing pod. By shifting his things around a bit.

Hm.

In any case, Coran wasn’t up for a one-sided argument about the pros and cons of mice-free cryopods. It didn’t want him to clean them right now? Fine. He’d move on to something else on his list.

He had to keep busy.

So he left the chamber, turning his nose up at the spectre and giving it a small but pointed “ _hmph”._  He headed up to the control deck. He had to double-check the barrier crystals were in proper alignment. Then he could asses the navigational systems and make sure they were up-to-date for this sector. Make adjustments where needed. Star charts needed updating too; those big gassy giants lived long lives, but even _they’d_ shifted around a bit in the ten-thousand deca-phoebs he’d been gone!

Coran sighed. Even the constellations were different.

Nevermind. After that, he could head down to the engine rooms and check the main engines were well-oiled, look over the dynotherms, and just take a peek at the fire suppressors. Just in case there were any hiccups anywhere. Make sure everything was running smoothly.

Just to keep busy.

He rubbed a tired hand over his face. When was the last time he’d slept, anyway? Did he have time to take a quick nap at some point today? He’d squeeze it in somewhere, if he remembered. Maybe somewhere between running cautionary diagnostics on the alarm systems and polishing the teleduv lenses.

Coran does manage to make it through a few items on his list in the control room, much to his relief. While he's here, he starts opening up the thousands of distress beacons that the Castle had recorded during its long rest, deciding it might be a good idea to catalogue them. If he could get a system going classifying the date, location and severity of them all, then it could start helping them put together a more coherent picture of what they were dealing with- exactly how far the empire had managed to expand.

It would certainly give them a few clues about all the history they missed out on. And if they could determine which of the more recent ones were still salvageable, give the Paladins a direction to head towards. Some small targets to work with. Slowly start undoing all the damage that Zarkon has caused.

Except he doesn’t even make a dint in it when that debilitating tiredness starts to sap away at his strength again. He feels fatigued, limbs heavy and mind unfocused. There’s so many little lights surrounding him, each one signifying people who needed help. Help that probably never came to them.

His eyes are blurry, stinging from tiredness now. There’s just so much to do.

There’s always so much to do and he feels like if he stops for even a _second_ he’s going to collapse in on himself and give up.

And as he thinks that, the room chills slightly, and the hologram blinks off.

Coran stands there for a moment, stunned. He _just checked_ that the systems were working fine, there should be no reason for a glitch like this to happen. Only now he has that feeling again, the one of being watched, of having someone’s attention on him.

He turns his head to the right. The figure is there.

He stares at it. It... doesn't do much of anything, back. Rude.

“Fine,” he says, voice clipped. “ _Fine._ You don’t want me to work? I won’t work!” He crosses his arms, exasperated and exhausted and _fed up_ with this goddamn _ghost._  “Let’s see if you like it when the Castle malfunctions because _someone_ wouldn’t let me do my job, and everyone on board mutually suffers a slow and painful death via broken airlock or exploding engines because _nothing is functioning”_

It flickers for a moment, fluctuating between barely-there and semi-translucent. Coran gets the distinct impression it’s _laughing at him._ Which, no, he’s not going to deal with that. He’s too tired.

If he can’t get any work done, maybe now would be a good time for that nap…

Well, it certainly beats getting harassed and held up by mischievous spooks. He can’t help but feel like he’s been pressured into something, though. Surely the spectre’s goal this whole time wasn’t just to get him to stop working and take a break. That would be preposterous.

It’s only when Coran finally lays down in bed, still fully dressed, that he realises just how run-down he really was. Every inch of him feels drained and overworked, and he can’t help the massive yawn that leaves his mouth just as his head hits the pillow. As Coran is drifting away, he vaguely notes that the ghost is hovering by his bedside.

There’s a portrait Coran’s kept in his private quarters here since almost the start of his employment as royal advisor- one of him and Alfor, when they were both younger and less rugged. They’re both grinning amicably in it, the telltale signs of crows feet just starting to tease the corners of their eyes. It’s a miracle the paint hasn’t dilapidated, considering how long it’s been sitting here gathering dust.

The ghost almost looks like it’s staring at it.

Oh. Now, isn’t that curious?

 

*

 

Years before Altea had fallen, before Allura had been born, before the comet that would become Voltron had arrived, Coran had been a father.

His son was well on his way to becoming a fine young man when he had joined the Altean Space Squad. He’d followed closely in Coran’s footsteps, Aeronautics sub-tech nano-weaponry unit- just like his old man. It had brought a tear to Coran’s eye, the day he was accepted.

Coran had never been so proud.

His squadron had been on an off-planet training expedition as part of boot camp when something went wrong. A negligent supervising officer, a bug in their navigation system detected too late, an asteroid field they’d been unprepared for-

The universe can be cruel; Coran had discovered that long before Zarkon.

Outer space is dangerous, lethal if not faced with adequate preparation and caution. The squadron’s ship had suffered serious external damage during collision, and breach in the hull resulted in several casualties. One of them had been his son.

Coran received the news via video transmission, stood rigid and unhearing as some stranger clinically read out the details of the incident.

His universe came crashing down around him. That’s what it had felt like- never had he known such bone-shattering, numbing, all-encompassing grief. He’d fallen apart, all joy and meaning ripped viciously away from life, spent each and every waking hour wishing he were dead just so he didn’t have to deal with the _pain_ of his loss. His son was gone. Dead. Lost to space

For a long time, Coran didn’t sleep. He was plagued by nightmares of sharp rock, gauging deep wounds into metal, slicing it open like a tin can, giving away to a suffocating vacuum. Never had he felt such a stifling _helplessness_ before- He’d been half a solar system away when the tragedy happened, even if he’d known about it at the time there would have been _nothing he could have done._

Coran had encouraged his son on this path. He sent him off to his death with a smile and a wave.

Alfor was the one who had pulled him back from the brink. Coran recalls the night he’d spent in the King’s chamber, the two of them sitting on the edge of the grand bed while Coran was bent over double with grief. His friend and King had rubbed a consoling hand over Coran’s back while he sobbed into his knees.

 _“What am I meant to do, Alfor?”_ he’d choked out, feeling like he was drowning, like all his insides were collapsing, like there was some vital part of him missing that someone had cut him open for and wrenched out, not caring what permanent damage they’d left behind. He missed his son. He’d been so proud of him, had last left him with nothing but a hug and a grin and a thousand things unsaid.

Alfor had locked his gaze onto him then, intense and kind- always kind- he’d put a warm hand on Coran’s shoulder, gave him a small shake.

 _“You keep moving forward,”_ he said, forceful. A command from a ruler. Booking no argument. _“You pick yourself up, Coran, and you keep on living. For him.”_  

Alfor had said it like it was obvious- like Coran’s world hadn’t just ended. It didn’t seem possible, to just _keep going,_ not after he’d lost the most important thing in his life. But Alfor had never done wrong by him before.

His King had told him to keep living. So, Coran did just that.

And now, over ten-thousand years later, he was reminded of that time yet again. Shiro had just come back from his mission. Shiro had come back without Allura.

Allura had been left behind. With the _Galra._

Coran had hoped that he’d never have to feel this kind of helplessness again.

Something was pulled tight in his chest, threatening to snap at any moment. He was trying hard not to panic, but it was difficult when grief was already intruding- dogging his heels as he paced back and forth in his private quarters, threatening to spill over into desperation as it hedged the outskirts of every thought. He’d let it consume him briefly, before on the bridge. It showed itself as cruel anger. Aimed towards Shiro because he was the easiest target, was with her when she had been ripped away-

_Protect her with your life._

He felt shame, hot and itching under his skin. Thought of the shattered look on the Black Paladin’s face, when Coran had hurled his fury at him, _Shiro lost Allura,_ and Shiro hadn’t even defended himself, hadn’t spoken a word- Stars, Coran felt so ashamed.

It wasn’t Shiro’s fault _._ It was Coran’s, because he’d let her go on that mission, hadn’t argued hard enough, hadn’t _protected her,_ broke his promise already and lost the one precious thing he had left in the universe.

The room chilled a fraction. Coran whirled around, already on edge. The apparition was there, in its usual spot by the portrait. It'd been showing up there a lot more, recently.

“She- she’s gone,” Coran’s tongue felt heavy, his mouth dry. He stumbled over his words. He didn’t know why he was telling the ghost this, wasn’t sure when he’d finally accepted it wasn’t just his imagination- it felt important to let it know.

“Allura’s gone. They took her and it’s my-,” he cut himself off, world spinning.

It wasn’t Shiro’s fault. But was it his own? Would Allura have listened to him, if he’d kept arguing? Would she have abstained from going on that mission, have stayed idly behind in the Castle while the Paladins walked into danger?

Would she have tried harder to fight her way out, if it had meant even a small a chance that Shiro would be captured?

No, Coran realises with a jolt. No, of course not. He knows Allura, and Allura would have made those choices no matter what Coran had said. Allura would never put her own life above Shiro’s- the mission is her greatest priority.

He'd never been able to talk Alfor out of anything, and Coran knows with a crippling sense of powerlessness that Allura is the same.

The helplessness is creeping icily over his skin, again. He can’t protect her from her own decisions. He has no _right_ to. They’re hers’ to make.

And suddenly, the anger is back tenfold. He knows his face has crumpled into something ugly, something dangerous.

“This is your fault,” he says icily, glaring at the corner of the room where the ghost hovers. He swears he sees it flinch backwards, just a little. Good.

“I know what you said to her,” he continues, and all his frustration, all his bitterness is coming to the surface, now. He feels like he’s about to explode. There’s no one here, no one but him and a fragment of a person he once knew. For once in his life, he has no desire to keep this contention under wraps. “'Be prepared to sacrifice everything', is that right?” He’s almost yelling now.

He’s never felt this angry before.

He takes a step forwards, ignoring the hotness behind his eyes, the way he’s clenching his fists so hard it hurts. “How could you even _think_ of putting those ideas in her head?!” The apparition is wavering around the edges, as if its nervous. Coran can suddenly see it clearer than ever, has his entire awareness locked onto it, _isn’t letting it out of his sight_. He’s been holding onto this for far too long. _“I don’t care_ about her duty, and _I don’t care_ about your mistakes,” he seethes. Sucks in a sharp breath, chest heaving.

His cheeks are wet with tears.

“She’s your _daughter!_ How _could_ you!?”

There’s silence for an awful, lingering moment- his choked breathing and the fading echo of his shouts the only sounds in the room. Coran’s knees give way, and he crumples to the floor. He sobs once, twice, and then takes a deep, rattling breath. Swallows down composure, wipes a tired hand over his face.

“She’s sacrificed enough,” he mutters quietly to the room. “How can you expect her to carry the universe’s burden?”

There’s no response. Of course there’s not; Coran is the only one here.

When he finally looks up again, the apparition has gone.

Anger has never suited Coran. It's exhausting, and distracting, and ultimately useless. Anger impairs judgement. It loosens tongues. He doesn't regret what he's just let loose, perhaps just doesn't have the energy for it- but there was next to nothing cathartic about this. The resentment lingers, and Coran feels drained. 

He's well and truly alone in this room. The cold somehow lingers. 

 

When Coran has calmed down- after he finally manages to squash all his barbed-wire bitterness, all his grief and anger down into that neat little lockbox in his mind- he apologises to Shiro.

“It doesn’t matter,” Shiro says when he brings up the issue with the wormholes. “We’re not leaving without her.”

He sounds so sure, meets Coran’s eyes with a steady promise. Coran appreciates that there’s someone else that understands how valuable Allura is, now. Something loosens in his chest, a quiet sort of relief, knowing that she has more than just one old man on her side.

Coran keeps moving forward. But only because he knows she'll be safe soon.

 

*

 

Afterwards, the Castle is quiet.

After Allura is found and the Black Lion almost lost; after the whirlwind of desperation and fighting and fear, the panic of seeing his family scattered and tossed to the mercy of space; after they’ve escaped the corrupted wormhole and all the Paladins have been brought _home;_ after Coran realises he needs to stop taking the fact he’s yet to be denied an ‘afterwards’ for granted-

Afterwards, he finds Allura in the ballroom.

She’s sitting down at the bottom of the long staircase. It leads up to the catwalk-style banisters bordering the edges of the room above their heads, and above that is an enormous, sloped ceiling that seems forever away. The size of the room means that even Coran, with his soft-soled shoes and lightweight footsteps, makes a loud entrance; the echoes of his feet double over each other a dozen times, resounding off the Castle walls until they’re filling the empty room, pointedly breaking the silence. Allura doesn’t look up. 

She’s hugging her knees loosely to her chest, and staring down at the floor in front of her. Some time since their reunion dinner- which had consisted of ‘the best food-goo the Castle had to offer’. (Their separate ordeals left even Hunk too exhausted to cook)- she’d changed into her night gown. Her hair is down, her feet bare.

She looks younger than ever.

He sits down next to her, close enough that their arms are pressed together. _The castle is drafty_ , he thinks disapprovingly. _She should be wearing a robe_.

“Are you okay, Princess?” he asks, voice soft and concerned. Still, the echo catches; the question hangs clear in the air.

Allura is quiet. Her eyebrows furrow, and she turns her head towards him just slightly. “I was so scared, Coran,” she says after a long pause. Her voice doesn’t waver, but he still catches the minute trembling in her tense shoulders. He doesn’t think it’s from the chill. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I’d never leave you behind,” and he doesn’t hesitate, because of _course_ he wouldn’t. The thought alone is preposterous and terrifying. He thinks back to the fear that had overtaken him, when Shiro came back with the news. Coran never wants to feel that helpless again.

He never wants to not be there for her again.

Allura’s shoulders slump slightly, the wrinkle between her eyebrows smoothing out as she lets out a tired sigh. Her fingers unlace across her knees, and she stretches her legs out slightly. “That was irresponsible of you, letting them bring Voltron to him,” she says, aiming for chiding but with no real heat to her voice. She just sounds tired. “But thank you.”

Her weight presses more firmly against his side, and she rests her head on his shoulder. Coran brings an arm up around her. Something is finally settling inside his chest, now that she’s here and safe and they’re all out of danger. Something painful he hadn’t let himself pay too much attention to, before.

“Of course,” he replies. He’ll always come for her, no matter the stakes. Allura was everything. Allura was a promise he’d made to a dear friend, was an oath that kept his blood circulating, gave him purpose. She was as good as a daughter to him, here at the other end of a shared tragedy, the only thing he’s managed to keep close through a ten-thousand-year absence. He could tell her all of that.

Instead he rubs her arm soothingly and says, “the universe needs you. Just as much as it needs the Paladins.”

 _I need you,_ are his unspoken words. Without Allura, he’d be truly alone.

He doesn’t know if she believes him; the thought of her thinking of herself as less important twists his stomach painfully. He doesn’t blame Shiro for what happened, still feels the lingering guilt over blowing up at him, earlier. But Coran can’t handle the idea that she’d make the same choice again, if the situation ever calls for it.

Allura has sacrificed _enough._ For her to put her safety, her _life_ below _anyone’s,_ is a cruel notion. He still can’t shake the resentment he feels towards Alfor, for even suggesting such a terrible thing.

Coran hasn’t seen the apparition since he had yelled at it before the rescue mission, and he’s relieved; he doesn’t think he’d be able to stomach looking at it, right now. Not when all he wants to do is keep Allura close so she can’t slip away from him for a second time.

He doesn’t want to let anyone take anything away from her again. He knows that’s not always going to be his choice to make.

That knowledge burrows deep into his marrow, refuses to be dismissed. Freezes his insides over.

Allura’s fists clench where they rest in her lap, her fingernails digging into her palms. “I saw Zarkon,” she says. And now, her voice does shake. Zarkon has that effect. “They brought me to him. So that he could gloat, I imagine,” she sucks in a sharp breath, pressing closer to Coran’s side. Shudders as she lets it out slowly.

“He’s not at all how I remember him,” and there’s something final about the statement. Like she’s confirming something for herself. Like maybe, she thought she would find something familiar within Zarkon’s face; something to indicate that even a shred of the person they’d known was still there.

Not for that monster’s sake. Coran has never wished actual harm on anyone in his life, and Allura’s heart is too pure for that. Objectively speaking, for the greater good of the universe, Zarkon deserves nothing but imprisonment or death. He passed the chance for atonement long, long ago.

He’s about ten-thousand years too late for redemption.

But when you’re removed from time for so long- when your entire reality has changed, moved on without you- you look for familiarity wherever you can find it. Even the smallest consistencies between what you once knew and what is here now are a comfort.

“No,” Coran affirms. Because as it turns out, even their enemies are unrecognisable. It makes things seem even harder, makes their mission seem all the more impossible; Coran is so uncertain of so many things “The Paladin we once knew is long gone.”

He feels a twinge of guilt, and even though Allura isn’t looking at him, he tries not to let it show too plainly on his face. He could have prepared her for this, at the very least. He could have told her, about the Rift and the Quintessence; about Zarkon and Honerva, their devoted love and tragic deaths and twisted transformations; how they were corrupted and malformed into strangers. How they became evil.

Coran had wanted so desperately to spare Allura from that particular tale. She had known them, once.

He wonders if they even remember who they used to be.

Coran gently pulls away from her and stands up; Things have gotten far too grim. There’s nothing to be gained from dwelling over the past like this. Especially now, when they’re all reunited and together again- a cause for celebration, not moping around in dark rooms and brooding over things that can’t be helped.

He stands in front of his young charge and bows low, holding out a gloved hand. “Care for a dance?”

Allura looks momentarily stunned at the change of pace, before bringing a hand up to her mouth and chuckling softly. “What, now? At this hour?”

“We’re already up, aren’t we? And we _are_ in the ballroom; no better time nor place, if you ask me.” Allura needs no further convincing. She puts a deceptively delicate hand in his, and he pulls her deftly to her feet stand next to him.

He hasn’t quite gotten around to cleaning this room properly yet; there’s too many old memories attached to it that Coran just wasn’t ready to deal with. The most he’s done is sweep through it quickly with a bucket and mop. The room is lacking the grandiose atmosphere it holds in Coran’s memories.

In the old days, there would be jovial parties held in here. Bright, warm lights would shine merrily from the ceiling and walls, illustrious and welcoming. Banners in rich fabrics and all kinds of beautiful decorations would be hung from banisters. There was glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling, hand-crafted specifically for the ballroom by Altea’s most renowned artisans. Coran isn’t sure what happened to it.

Music swelled in the air, rising and falling in the spaces between conversation, between laughter. Diplomats, royal entourages, the noble-bred and the Paladins, Generals and Empresses, poets and artists and scholars, good people of high standing galaxy-wide had gathered in this ballroom for years and years. The distinguished and the venerable; the talented and the brave. They’d all lost themselves in the elation of dancing and pleasant company.

Alfor had hosted many a ball in his time as King- some for diplomatic purposes, some for the sake of pure fun. Though noble and true to his duties, he’d always had a youthful streak; He indulged in opulence, was not ashamed of the more leisurely perks of his status nor of sharing the lavish culture of Altea with the greater universe.

Many times, Coran had been tasked with keeping a young Allura occupied while these extravagant balls were taking place. Lively as the parties were, the intricacies of diplomacy were an out-of-bounds ordeal for the Princess not yet six deca-phoebes old. But Coran had never been able to deny Allura anything; by the end of the night, it was a guarantee that the two of them would have snuck into the ballroom to join the festivities. Allura would balance her tiny feet on top of Coran’s boots, and he would lead her carefully through the masses on the ballroom floor, dancing couples a joyous blur of colour and excitement around them as they stepped carefully through a slow Altean waltz.

Allura would giggle, smile as bright as the lights reflecting off the chandelier. If Coran happened to catch Alfor’s eye he would see the King heft out a dramatic sigh, simultaneously trying to hide his amusement. The adviser would simply wink at his friend and twirl the Princess around as the two of them laughed.

Those were the nights the Castle felt most _alive_.

Ten-thousand deca-phoebs of slumber and a universe ravaged by war later, Coran finds it impossible to consolidate the images in his memories with the present.

He leads Allura around the ballroom, a hand on her waist and another gently holding one of her own. They waltz to a stilted rhythm, barely pay attention to the proper technique. The two of them simply move, following each others’ feet, stepping in time to whatever leisurely pace Coran sets. He turns them in languid circles under the Castle’s default dull blue lighting, humming a withering tune that sounds melancholic and distant as it echoes back to them.

The vibrancy and crowded atmosphere that used to fill the Castle up has been bleached out of the walls. The ceiling looms darkened above them. Everything is silent except for Coran’s off-tune melody and the sound of his shuffling footsteps as they waltz across the white floor. He closes his eyes and pretends for just a moment that Altea still stands, and the room didn’t feel quite so devoid of life. Briefly, he pictures the throng of dancers, twirling and spinning and laughing; their outfits billowing around them in whirlwinds of colourful exuberant fabrics; a single spirited note, sweet and melodious, lingering in the air as the song comes to an end.

He opens his eyes, and the ghosts disappear.

It’s just the two of them, here- him in his uniform, a promise to keep and a duty to uphold; her in a pale pink nightgown, tired and shaken after a traumatic ordeal.

One too old, saddled with regrets and clinging to the past, and the other too young, weighed down by unfair burdens ill-suited for someone so innocent.

"I think we're a tad rusty at this," he mutters quietly, and Allura hums in response, smiling wistfully. It looks like she's starting to let the tiredness catch up to her. Coran is still running from his own exhaustion.

"At least I'm not so small I have to stand on your feet, anymore," she replies. 

"No," and there's something sad in his voice that he can't quite manage to hide. "No, you've grown up quite a bit since then." There's an echo in his ears, her voice from not so long ago but simultaneously dredged deep in the past; defiant and fiery-

_Stay and fight. We mustn't give up hope._

No, Allura hasn't needed anyone to lead her for a long time, now. 

She stops keeping step with him, brings both her hands to his shoulders. She leans her head against Coran’s chest, eyes downcast and haunted. Coran doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He simply wraps his arms around her and rests his chin on the crown of her head. Keeping her close.

The reality of the past quintant catches up to him, and he squeezes her gently, just once.

He can’t lose her. That would be the first undoable step towards losing himself.

It’s just them. Two homeless, lonely souls in a house of ghosts; awash in the dim light of a ballroom that hasn’t seen life in thousands of years.

An orphaned Princess and her royal adviser, and a castle that’s too big, too empty. Too quiet.

When Coran sees Allura off to bed, he makes the lonely walk back to his own quarters in near silence. 

His footsteps echo.

**Author's Note:**

> Coming up: some more interaction between Coran and the Paladins, Halloween shenanigans, and some late-night reminiscing.  
> @AstroPhantom, I hoped I met your expectations!! Thanks for the fantastic prompts, I had a ton of fun with this! 
> 
> (EDIT: Hey, it just occurred to me to put a note about this here, but the next chapter is going to take a long time, because I have to rewrite it! A lot of "life stuff" happened that delayed it for a few months, and then in February my hard drive died and I lost everything. My own fault for not backing things up, hah.... :(  
> Honestly I was so disheartened that I considered just abandoning writing altogether BUT I'd never forgive myself if I gave up, especially since this was a gift fic for somebody. I can't say when the next part will be out; before I lost it the 2nd chapter was sitting at about 20k sooo........ well, it's gonna take a long while. Sorry.)
> 
> Some author's ramblings:  
> \- Inspiration for giving Coran a son who he'd unfortunately been parted with came from the original 80’s Voltron. There’s an episode of DotU where a dude claiming to be Coran’s long-lost son shows up, revealing they’d been separated when Arus was attacked. Turns out, spoilers ahoy, that it was actually an evil clone of Coran’s son sent by Haggar to kill Coran and take over the Castle. Big surprise, there. First rule of DotU: don’t trust anyone who randomly shows up one day and claims to be an ally. They’re not. Anyway, I chose to forgo mentioning his son’s name in the story, because in the original GoLion it was ‘Saint’, which didn’t feel right, and in DotU it was…. ‘Garrett’… which uhhh is quite possible the least alien-sounding name you could go with. Except for maybe ‘Keith’ *canned laughter*
> 
> -Coran is a guy who's carrying around a lot of trauma and grief. I think to an extent, he masks that with humour and "copes" with it by keeping himself busy, but one of my favourite aspects of his character is how genuine his positive attitude and optimism is. He's a dude that knows how to roll with the punches. What a legend.
> 
> -Simultaneously, I admire that even though he plays a largely comic-relief role in VLD, the show also gives him plenty of moments when he's vulnerable. Most of them concern Allura. 
> 
> -One of the prompts my giftee asked for was "Coran dealing with loss". What I was trying to get across here is that Coran is in part using this focus on "protecting Allura" and putting this promise he'd made to Alfor before everything else as a way to... avoid dealing with his own trauma. If it sounds like he's more concerned with Allura's grief than his own, then that was partially deliberate. We're gettin to the good stuff 8)
> 
> -Once again, come talk to me on tumblr!! I'm @terezees
> 
> -THANK YOU FOR READING HAPPY HALLOWEEN I HOPE YOU ENJOYED


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